


Guilt + Redemption

by srmiller



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, olicity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:23:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srmiller/pseuds/srmiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in November I came across a brilliant tumblr post which absolutely blew me away because it basically brought to light something I hadn’t noticed before, but certainly should have: “Oliver and Felicity..play out like characters in a Jane Austen novel, soft smiles, lingering looks, suppressed emotions and no physical intimacy”</p><p>Since then I haven’t been able to forget about it and I’ve finally gotten in the right head-space to actually write it, so ladies and gentlemen I give you Arrow as a Jane Austen novel*</p><p>*or as close as a modern day, American writer can get</p><p>**currently abandoned, i'm hoping to get the inspiration to finish one day</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was widely known that despite having no title, the year Oliver Queen came of age every young woman hoped to be the one to induce him to marry, and so it was every year hence until he died, his ship having been lost on its way to India.

A state of being which did not last long, as Mr. Queen was given everything he wanted, and if he wanted to be alive again it was a forgone conclusion he would be, and immediately after his return to Starling every woman of age (and those long since on the shelf) once again set their sights on the bold, beautiful, and now romantically tragic heir to the Queen fortune.

Mr. Queen paid them little mind.

Many suspected the decision to forgo the company of the fairer sex was due in large part to fact that, upon his return, he discovered his closest confidante had married the woman he’d been courting upon his untimely disappearance and supposed death, a young woman by the name of Laurel Lance.

This was not true.

Had it been feasible, Mr. Queen assured any who would listen he would have stood up for his friend at the wedding and wished both the bride and her groom a well and happy life.

She was an odd choice for either man, as she was a woman without a place in the world. Daughter of a Bow Street runner, those ruthless and often desperate sorts whose services were for hire by both the government and the citizens, and an English noble-woman she was neither elite nor common and had struggled throughout her life to find the balance between the two

A balance she found only after her affections had found a home and a haven in the arms of the titled and well-heeled son of an Earl, Thomas Merlyn, and after a respectable courtship and lengthy engagement changed her name from Lance to Merlyn.

Formerly a dandy whose escapades had often put his and Mr. Queen’s names side by side in the gossip columns eagerly read with breakfast, it had seemed absurd for the young lord to alter himself so completely in order win the heart of a woman far below his station, but win her he did and anyone who was honest would admit both seemed happier upon the attachment.

Though these people of the honest persuasion were few and far between in great Society, no one dared to dismiss the new Lady Merlyn for fear of offending her husband or father-in-law, a man ruthless in all aspects of his life. With a zeal for politics and business he had accumulated substantial wealth and formidable power, power which was all the more assured since Mr. Queen’s father had in fact died on the ship which had failed to kill his son.

He had been dead for five years, and had visited his own grave shortly after returning. His sister, a young flirt who was harmless and adored by those of her age, had shown him the marker set in the family plot alongside his father’s.

“I used to come here and talk to you as I used to do, as we would have if you’d been here,” she admitted, her small hand finding his large one and holding on as if she feared he would disappear again as he wondered at the strange oddity of seeing one’s name written in stone. “I had hoped there may be some chance of you hearing me, and in doing so I would be able to keep you with me, keep you close, but I suppose you couldn’t.”

“I heard you,” he assured her, looking down at the young woman who had been a child when he’d said a brief and forgettable good-bye all those years ago. Her face was leaner now, having lost much of the softness of youth, her eyes which had once been filled with mischief and laughter now held the soul of someone seemingly much older than eighteen. Grief had aged her, and stolen a part of her innocence he feared she would never get back. “How else do you think I found my way home?”

She cried then, falling in to the arms of the brother who had both teased and comforted in the past. And the stoic man, who many would come to say was a changed man, cried as well though by the time young Thea’s sobs quieted all evidence had been removed.

There was more than time lost in those tears, more than memories unmade and days past. He had more to grieve than missing holidays and birthdays gone unnoticed.

His father, a man he had admired and looked up to, a man he had fashioned himself after revealed himself a fraud.

The ocean and its deprivations had washed away all pretenses till the elder Queen admitted to his son, in a fit on conscience as the end neared, all the wrongs he had committed. More than absolution, his confession was given with the intention of passing on the sins so the son may right what the father had wronged.

With his father gone it never occurred to Mr. Queen to resent his father’s confession, to hoard bitterness or anger at the man for passing on guilt which was not his to carry. Though later in his life, those who loved and cared for him would admit to unfairness of the lot cast upon young and innocent shoulders, no matter the blessings it later brought.

It had been his endeavor to retain all secrets regarding his objective to make up for his father’s sins and to restore order to his city, but some dramatic events occurred involving Mr. Queen’s steward, a poisoned bullet, an international assassin, and some herbs from a place Mr. Queen had survived but never talked about.

The steward in question, a Mr. John Diggle formerly of the Army, was a man of sincere allegiances and secret affections; he was known to receive letters from various parts of the world from an unknown correspondent and the maids often occupied their downtime wondering who the quiet gentleman might be receiving letters from. This was more than idle curiosity as they believed he was unattached, of good standing, and impressive stature.

Indeed, more than one young lady remarked he looked more brawler than business man, his broad shoulders and wide arms often pressing against the seams of his well tailored jackets.

After some necessary hesitation it came to pass Mr. Diggle agreed to help the younger man in his quest to right what wrongs had been done and together they formed a partnership, unknown to all in Society, whose goal it was to rid their beloved city of the tarnish which had been bestowed upon it by those of means but not of conscience.

His father having been one of those who used his wealth and position to acquire more of both, Mr. Queen had assigned himself duty and guilt for the transgressions, intending to right the wrongs done by his blood. Wrongs he believed he may have been able to deter had he been less involved in his own world and had paid more attention to what went on around him.

But the past, as Mr. Diggle frequently reminded him, was firmly in the past and dwelling upon it did neither future, nor the present any good.

Mr. Queen paid no attention to his advice.

It was in the fall of that first year Mr. Queen came upon some evidence which he was certain would lead him to the names of people who had worked with his father in manipulating the city and its citizens.

Upon looking at the slip of paper, yellowed with age and singed at the edges, it was only the corner of a piece of paper Mr. Diggle knew enough to not ask how the other man acquired it, “This isn’t English.”

With restraint learned over years of near isolation, Mr. Queen resisted snapping at his friend and comrade and instead pressed his lips together in a tight seam, letting the words hit the inside of mouth before being safely swallowed once more.

“Yes, I came to the same conclusion myself,” he replied rigidly. “My inquiry was whether or not you had seen a language like this during your time in the army?”

“No,” Mr. Diggle shook his head. “It’s not a Latin based language such as French or Spanish either, these aren’t character you would find in Western Europe.”

“You’re thinking it’s of the Orient?”

“I wouldn’t know what those characters would like,” he admitted, handing the burned paper back. “It’s not Indian?”

“No,” he replied certainly. Though his time away had not been in India, he had come across the language in the five years since, it was one of the few details he had allowed himself to share with his steward.

“You’re best bet is a language expert.”

“I don’t know of any.”

“I’m not certain there are any Starling, but there is a researcher at the Starling Library who may be able to help.”

Starling Library was the largest library in the country where many of the premiere scholars of the country kept offices so research and advancement any given subject could be done in a single place of knowledge.

It made sense if anyone could help him they would be burrowed in a small office at the library filled with dusty books, hidden from windows and fresh air with such consistency Mr. Queen wondered if they thought it helped the process of learning.

“I’ll go there tomorrow, what name should I ask for?”

“Felicity Smoak."


	2. Chapter 2

The Starling City Library was spectacular, or would be to those whom knowledge and stories called, to those with the patience to wander shelves and skim over endless spines turning tilted words in to doorways for escape or explanation.

For Mr. Queen, the library was instead an intimidating place, a stark reminder of all the things he had not been capable of accomplishing in his life.

The large, ornate entrance with its arched doorways and gilded walls were as far as he was willing to go; the books and words sitting on the shelves just on the other side of those arches were beyond him. Beyond what he was capable of understanding.

A dandy without purpose or direction, it was the image he’d made for himself upon returning to Starling, an image he’d fashioned after his own likeness; a boy who had refused to become a man, a student who did not learn, and a son who endlessly refused to live up to his potential.

It left him wondering if he hadn’t been able to learn all those years at school, or had he simply refused to? If he crossed the shining marble to the words beyond, would he understand them now? Would words like economics and history stir the blood, or was his hand only good enough to hold a sword and a bow?

Some things, he concluded with a decisiveness he did not feel, were better left undiscovered. Better to hold on to the hope of what could be, than to know for certain what it wasn’t.

“May I help you sir?”

The sudden words were loud, but Mr. Queen’s keen senses had alerted him to the man’s arrival long before he head the man’s stern voice echo across the distance. With a smooth smile, practiced to hide all those invisible scars, Mr. Queen turned, charm firmly in place.

“Oh! Mr. Queen. It is Mr. Queen, is it not? Your likeness was in the papers along with the announcement of your happy return. Welcome to the Starling Library, I am Mr. Edward Redmond, proprieter of the library. What may I help you with?”

“I’m looking for a Miss Felicity Smoak.”

The older man in front of him, who seemed to have faithfully studied what a stodgy scholar should look like and replicated it to the best of his ability, shifted nervously on his feet, his eyes darting about.

Mr. Queen kept his patience firmly in place, though his curiosity was sufficiently piqued. What about the name caused the man to squirm? What was it about the woman which made the stiff man nervous?

“Miss Smoak? Yes. She’s a…she keeps an office here. But perhaps if you could tell me what it is you are after I can suggest the appropriate person to help you.”

“I’m after Miss Smoak. She was recommended to me so if you could give me directions to where I might find her, I’ll let you get on with your day.”

“You have not made the acquaintance of Miss Smoak, is this correct?”

“This will be our first meeting,” Mr. Queen confirmed, growing only more intrigued with each passing word. He needed to meet this woman, if for no other reason to assuage his growing curiosity. When was the last he had experienced such an innocent and fresh emotion, he wondered absently. To be curious about something only for the sake of being curious, to picture something in your head (and not because you needed to plot or plan) in order to compare it to the real thing?

“Then I must warn you Mr. Queen, she is an irregularity.”

“Irregularity?” he repeated, eyebrow raised in a look he was not aware made him seem ever more the entitled heir. “How so?”

“I wish there was a way to properly warn you, but to be truthful, oftentimes experience is one’s best teacher. If you find Miss Smoak unable to fulfill your expectations, feel free to find me and I will recommend someone for you. My office is on the top floor, just follow the hallway to the end. I’ll be expecting you.”

Mr. Queen put his hands in his pockets with a sigh as the man turned to leave, “Mr. Redmond?”

The man turned quickly, a look of hope written clear among features, “Yes, Mr. Queen?”

“Miss Smoak’s office?”

The older man’s chest deflated, all hope gone, “To your right there is a set of stairs leading down to the basement, follow the hall, her office will be the third on your right.”

“Thank you.”

Who exactly was Felicity Smoak, he wondered as he stepped towards the stairs with one last, longing glance at the books he did not, and possible could not, read. Was she possibly a heathen? An American? Was she crude or hard to understand, her voice heavy with accent?

He pictured a full woman with frizzy hair and birds flying around her office, each with its own name and personality and tragic back story. His mind conjured a half dozen ridiculous notions by the time he reached her office door, slightly ajar, and it occurred to him it was the first time since he had come back his mind had not been so full of serious thoughts.

With a knock on the wood the door swung open and Mr. Queen, he of the dandy reputation and serious eyes, smiled.

This was no smile of the ordinary variety, of which Mr. Queen no longer possessed, upon his return each lift of the lips had become calculated to elicit a specific response from his audience, but just now there was no reason for the upturn other than pleasant surprise.

Her hair was not frizzy, instead it was blonde and smooth and carefully pleated in to a bun on the crown her head, a pair of spectacles perched precariously on her nose.

There were no birds, but there was at least half the library stacked around her office in precarious piles. There was a pencil stuck in her hair, one behind her ear, and yet another in her hand as she furiously made notes, muttering to herself.

She seemed to have no idea he stood there, taking her in.

“Miss Smoak?”

Absently she glanced at him, her gaze becoming more focused when she realized exactly who had entered her office. The pencil in her hand dropped carelessly and unnoticed onto the desk.

“Mr. Queen.”

The smile did not waver and continued beaming without any knowledge as to what a genuine smile from Oliver Queen, heir apparent, did to a person’s nerves. “Yes, and you are Miss Smoak?”

“Of course,” she stammered. “Well, I mean not of course, I could have been anybody. It’s not as if my name is on the door to indicate who-and even if it was the case, my name being on the door that is, it would not guarantee no one else could sit at my desk." She closed her eyes as if refocusing herself before opening them and meeting his gaze with a confidence and equality most men of his acquaintance hadn't yet mastered, "But as it happens, I am Felicity Smoak.”

She picked up the neglected pencil, running it through her fingers in an absent, and practiced, gesture.

“I understand you’re an expert.”

“I am.”

He smiled again, something which sounded cousin to a laugh breathed through his lips, “I did not say of what.”

“It does not matter,” she waved a hand, the pencil slipping through her fingers and landing somewhere in the corner of the office. Miss Smoak stared in its general direction with something akin to insult, as if the pencil had left her of its volition, before taking the pencil from the behind her ear and running it through her fingers. “It is generally understood I am an expert at everything.”

“Then why was I so vehemently warned to not come to you for assistance?”

“I lack the necessary tact to deal with the general public. Mr. Redmond, I assume it was Mr. Redmond who warned you from darkening my door? Mr. Redmond was probably terrified I would say something about your dead father or remarried mother or the fact your fiancé married your closest friend.”

There was silence in the office for an instant before Miss Smoak’s eyes closed behind her glasses.

“I beg your pardon.”

“In all fairness, I was warned.”

Her eyes snapped open, her eyes narrowed, “You’re not offended.”

“You didn’t actually say anything offensive,” he reminded her. “They are facts, uncomfortable ones mind you, but better to have them out in the open than festering between us.”

“You’re more sensible than you’re made out to be.”

He chuckled, wondering if she realized the insult in the compliment, “Do you have time in your busy schedule to help me with a project?”

“I might,” she conceded, standing up and moving towards him, stopping when she saw a pile of books between the desk and the wall, effectively blocking her. “How did those get there?”

The look she gave him was accusatory, and Mr. Queen felt obliged to defend himself, “I did not put them there.”

“I don’t remembering putting them there myself,” she admitted. “But I must have, though it was a foolish place to put them. Right in my way like that.”

She stared at the books for a moment longer, and he could all but see her mind working out how she might have put them there, and what reason there might have been, but Mr. Queen needed answers to his question and presented her with his hand.

Miss Smoak stared at it as she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with it, “Perhaps you might you might solve the mystery of the books later?”

She smiled and accepted his hand, “Right.”

With his help she stepped over the books and it was only then Mr. Queen realized how small she was, or perhaps it was only she made him feel so large and awkward with her wide smile and small hands.

“What is I may help you with?”


	3. Chapter 3

“I was recently renovating a property and found this,” Mr. Queen explained as he reached in to his coat pocket to retrieve the remaining corner of a burnt piece of paper and handed in to the young blonde adjusting the spectacles perched on her nose.

Gingerly she took the parchment, the weight being too heavy to be considered normal writing paper, and stepped towards the lamp for easier viewing.

“Do you think you can tell me what it is?”

Miss Smoak nodded didn’t bother looking back up at him, but continued to gaze at the fading ink with all the interest of a lover, it was odd, her passion.

He’d been told Felicity Smoak, of the mysterious circumstances, was in fact the best researcher in the country and could be counted on to ferret out any mystery. While Mr. Queen had been hesitant to approach someone who was so adept at uncovering secrets he’d also learned during the course of his quiet inspection in to her character she was as well known for her discretion as for her knowledge.

And in a world where a woman’s mind was rated half so well as a man’s, the level of respect for her acumen told Mr. Queen she was at least half more intelligent then the rest of the men in the same building where she was hidden beneath the ground like a secret.

But where did one acquire such enthusiasm for words, for information? He’d been unable to fake such interest for learning, much less keep it for his own, and yet here she stood tucked away from the sun and stood bright enough with her passion to give the room light.

“How did you manage to find this single piece of paper in a warehouse?” she asked, finally looking back at him.

Shifting restlessly on his feet Mr. Queen took an unconscious step back as if to put more distance between himself and her question, “How did you know I found it in a warehouse?”

“It is very common knowledge the heir to the Queen fortune has recklessly decided to take one of his father’s empty warehouses on Glade Street and transform it in to a gentleman’s club.”

He blinked, “I wasn’t aware my enterprise was common knowledge.”

Miss Smoak shrugged, “I heard of it from a friend and thought it an interesting venture for a man who so recently spent his time surviving on an island for five years. What exactly makes a man look at an empty brick building far from the usual haunts of men on St. Mathew’s street and decide to turn it in to a gentleman’s club? Do you think merely because you’re name is above the door people will travel the distance to loose their money at your tables?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, seeming to accept the logic, “I don’t recommend you literally adding your name above the door. It would seem to be a display of excessive ego.”

Miss Smoak stopped suddenly, her whole body seemed as if it had been momentarily frozen, “I did not, of course, mean you have an excessive ego. Though of course the gossip columns would attribute you to having one. Not that I read the gossip columns, not regularly anyway. I’m sure you have a very reasonable ego for someone like you.” She shook her head as if attempting to erase the last sentence, “And by someone like you I mean-“

Her voice cut off when she felt his hand touch hers, and it was a surprise enough she looked to see his fingers pressing against her knuckles.

“The paper was getting too close to the lantern,” he explained, quickly removing his skin from hers and tucking it safely in the pocket of his trousers.

“Yes. My apologies, I have tendency to go on sometimes.”

“Do you know what it says?” he asked, attempting to get her attention focused on the paper once more.

“It’s in code.”

Mr. Queen nodded, but when she did not follow with any more information he cleared his throat, “Do you recognize the code?”

“No.”

A heavy sigh left his lips as he reached for the paper, certain he’d have to go back to Diggle and try another avenue in the hope of discovering the paper’s secrets.

Instead, Miss Smoak walked past him, neatly jumped over the pile of books which he had helped her over just minutes before and sat at her desk.

“Come back tomorrow.”

Mr. Queen, he of the easy manners and quick charm, stood on the other side of the desk, was thoroughly confused.

“Did you need something else?” she asked as she began pulling books from a pile in the corner.

“I must have misunderstood you, I thought you had said you couldn’t read the code?”

“I’m not entirely certain anyone can read code,” she pleasantly informed him. “But it doesn’t seem to be overly complicated and with the proper tools I should have an answer for you later tomorrow.”

“You can…do you call it decode?”

“I can decode it," she assured him, the books making a loud thump as she dropped them on her desk. "And will have done so by tomorrow if that suits.”

Mr. Queen nodded, “That would be wonderful.”

“Though I’m still not certain how you came to be in possession of a corner of a list written in code in a warehouse as large as the one you are renovating.”

“How do you know it’s a list?”

“The words don’t extend to the margins of the paper, each line consists of only two or three words. Much like a list.” She glanced back at the paper, now carefully set aside on her desk so as not to get mixed up with her other projects. When she looked at him her gaze was warm but curious, “How would a coded list even get in to a warehouse on Glade Street?”

“Perhaps I’ll be better able to answer once I know what it is.”

There was a soft sound from behind her lips which sounded oddly close to a disbelieving scoff, though Mr. Queen wasn’t sure enough to call the young lady on it, “As I said, feel free to come back at the end of the day tomorrow and I will have answers for you.”

“Thank you, Miss Smoak.”

“My pleasure.”

Walking out of the office and closing the door behind him, Mr. Queen thought she was very likely being honest when she said ‘my pleasure.’

As he had noticed when she’d first looked at the list, and already he had more answers than he had started the day with, there was a keen interest and enjoyment in her work.

What was it like, he wondered as he walked along the busy street in the warm spring air, to enjoy something?

It had been an exceptionally long time since he himself had found pleasure in anything, certainly nothing to compare to the joy he’d seen in her eyes at a list written in code.

Seeing his sister and his mother had been something akin to bittersweet, noting how time had changed them and all the moments and memories he had missed out on during his time on island, knowing the man who stood in front of them was not the same son and brother they had said goodbye to.

They had seen this change, and though Thea could be known to remark on it with snide quips and a roll of the eyes, no one else cared to mention it.

Not even his best friend, though time had scarred their close bond along with everything else. There was a new distance despite their attempt to pretend it did not exist, and they both secretly acknowledged the reason behind the hesitation.

Laurel had been his.

There had been no question of it when the two young men had first met the opinionated girl with the wide smile, with a wry laugh Thomas had acknowledged he had no chance winning the lady.

_“She already has eyes for you.”_

Not to say the romance had been easy, Mr. Queen and the then Miss Lance had stood on either side of a line in the sand, both far too stubborn to give an inch, and too in love to walk away.

But he could now concede, after seeing Thomas and Laurel happily married, it had all worked out for the best and he would not mention to either of them, despite his certainty while on the island, that it had been her miniature which had kept him alive.

Which had given him hope.

“Was Miss Smoak able to help?”

Mr. Queen glanced to his side and saw the family’s carriage stop on the street, the opened door revealing his steward. Frustrated, because he had spent much of his time on the island free to go wherever he wished without censure or observation, he climbed in to the carriage and settled on the plush seats.

“Yes, though it will take time to decode the text. She suggested I come back tomorrow. She’s a peculiar creature.”

Diggle raised an eyebrow, a habit of his whenever he suspected his employer was saying less than he was thinking, “Oh?”

“She’s younger than I had anticipated, most people who maintain such an esteemed position in academia tend to be farther along in years. She talks faster than she thinks, but she seems brilliant and capable. I believe she’ll get us the answers we need.”

“And does she suspect what the paper is?” Diggle asked, worried for his and his employer's secrets.

“We don’t even know what the paper is,” Mr. Queen pointed out as the conveyance made it’s way through the streets heading, he assumed, back to the warehouse. “However I don't think she suspects anything outright, she didn't challenge my explanation of how I came to be in possession of the paper.”

“That you had retrieved it from the wreckage of _Queen’s Gambit_?” Diggle clarified.

Mr. Queen shifted in his seat, “Not precisely.”

“You mean she did not believe you?”

“I mean,” Mr. Queen nearly snapped, irritated with himself as much with his friend, as he turned from the window of the carriage, “I did not tell her I found the paper in the shipwreck.”

Diggle’s brows furrowed, both of them leaning forward as the carriage stopped, presumably to let someone by, “I thought we had decided-“

“I was caught by surprise.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I entered the office I had been expecting…” he turned the window again, his shoulders tight, his thumb touching his middle finger in an absent gesture as he recalled walking in to the office and seeing Miss Smoak for the first time.

“I don’t know what it was I had been expecting, but she wasn’t it. I was caught off guard and forgot, in the moment, my prepared lie. So I came up with a new explanation on the spot.”

“What new explanation did you give her?” Diggle asked they began to move forward once again.

“I informed her I found the paper while renovating the warehouse,” Mr. Queen shrugged.

“And she believed you?”

“Actually, no, I don’t think she did. But as I said, she did not call me out on the falsehood and has agreed to help me so I’m not certain it matters.”

“Unless she decides to research you instead of the text.”

“It’s a coded list,” Mr. Queen supplied. “And if does she will find no more than we allow her to find. There is no reason for her to suspect I am anything but what I am.”

“The heir to a fortune and future owner of a gentleman’s club?”

“Precisely.”

“Anyone who thinks that is all you are is clearly not looking hard enough.”

Mr. Queen met his friends eyes, “Not everyone sees as well as you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter Mr. Queen goes back to find out what Miss Smoak has been able to translate and she may or may not make a colorful remark about the female entertainment usually found in gentlemen's club.


End file.
